


Find Me In Oregon

by Aliemur



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Dipper and Mabel and the Curse of the Time Pirates' Treasure!, Family Bonding, Gen, Post-Canon, Some Cursing, Timestuck, doesn't follow the journal's timeline, loosely based off of, time pirates can be scary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 07:19:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6145889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aliemur/pseuds/Aliemur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a cold and wet day in New Mexico. The once bright blue sky was blanketed with dark, menacing thunderclouds. A flash of lightning, a rumble of thunder. Hail and sleet began to pound down into the earth, unrelenting and almost angrily. Stan desperately ran through it, weighed down by his past.  </p><p>In the midst of it all, a child fell to the ground. Unconscious, with his sister lost in their cunning escape.  His hands were weakly clenched, grasping for his sister's hand and the machine that brought him here. The wind howled, picking up his hat and tossing it a few feet away.</p><p>Stan just happens to stumble upon the child.</p><p>ie: Dipper travels to 1982 and meets young Stan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dashing through the rain...

Stan stalked forward, footsteps muffled by the howling wind. He took a hurried glance at the sky, saw dark thunderclouds, and broke into a job. The clouds crackled ominously, blinding arches of lightning dancing across. Suddenly, a flash touched down in the distance, and then a couple of seconds late, thunder boomed. It rumbled deep into his bones, shaking him to his very core. 

His heartbeat pounded loudly in his chest, whether from fear or from his faster pace, he didn’t really want to admit. The wind tugged at his hair and clothes, its strength steadily growing stronger.

Damnit. He didn’t have time for nature’s bullshit. He’d parked the Stanley Mobile at a motel and had just walked to the meeting place, thinking he was being smart for saving his money and hiding his highly identifiable car. And then this thunderstorm showed up. It was like a good slap to the face. All of his other clothing were falling apart, and soon this outfit would be soaking wet. Technically, he  _could_  walk around naked in his motel room until his clothes dried, but he didn’t trust the security the place provided. No telling who might've followed him back.

Buying new clothes was also an option, particularly a new jacket since the one he wore was falling apart at the seams, but there were other priorities. Like food, water, and shelter. Besides, the money supply was running low. There was no telling how long it’d be before he gained enough cash to rent out a motel room again.

A few stray raindrops dripped from above, but feebly, periodically, as though they feel from a leaky tap. They sunk into his clothing, patterning him in darker colors.

Another blinding flash of lightning, a crash of thunder following it. The air was full of pent up tension, the entire world seemed to be holding its breath.

Then the world sighed. The rain cascade down from the sky, descending on him like a curtain falling over a stage at the end of a play. A sudden quietness overcame him, the drops almost seeming to kiss his skin. The moment quickly passed. He blinked through the wetness, pushing aside his hair, and grumbled under his breath the entire time. That shitty mullet. He kept meaning to cut the damn thing, or at least put it up or something, yet he never got around to it. He was paying the price now. The moisture would sink into his head, wrapping him in an icy embrace.  

The wind picked up, throwing the rain diagonally through the air. Loud cracking sounds echoed up and down the side walk, and he felt little hard pellets hit his body. Holy Moses, was that  _hail?_

A thunder-hail storm? Sounded like something that would happen to him; it was just his luck. The  _one day_  he decided to go out, the clouds decided to take a dump on him. What were the chances, especially in a desert?

Stan couldn’t see very far, the rain turning everything into a gray haze. His pace was steadily increasing, his breath puffing out in little, crystalline clouds. It wasn’t supposed to be cold today. The sun had been shining a few hours ago and the temperature had been in the high 50s. Now, though, his toes and fingers were freezing into icicles. Shit, he was still at least half a mile away from the motel.

The air whispered against his skin, raising the hairs on his arms. Electricity tingled across his shoulder blades. Cursing under his breath, he froze. The sensation continued, amplified by the sporadic drops of rain that were blown into his face.  His heartbeat thundered in his ears, pulse points beating frantically under his skin.

He was in deep shit. He was going to die, struck by lightning, in some mediocre little town in the middle of nowhere. 

A little voice broke through his frantic state, telling him to get it together. You've survived crazier things, and besides, you should know what to do. 

_You have to crouch down._

Self-preservation instinct (or maybe it was the voice) made him crouch down, covering his ears with his hands.

That voice whispered, reassuring him that the most dangerous thing to do in a thunderstorm was to stand up or sit under a tree _. Take your heels off the ground and touch them together, to form a smaller circuit. Hearing loss could also be a side effect from being so close to a lightning strike_ ,  _so you have got to cover your ears, Stanley.  If you're carrying anything metallic, you have got to throw it away, for your own sake._   _You can’t die because of something avoidable. We have to make it until we are old, grumpy codgers with back pain._

_“Psh” he scoffed, rolling his eyes and shoving his bro over. “Come on, when am I ever gonna be outside when it’s thundering? I ain’t blind or deaf.”_

 _Stanford pushed himself off the ground, adjusting his glasses. “You never know. It could come out of nowhere. We both heard about the kid down the street. A beautiful, sunny day, and then BAM," he smashed his fist into his palm for emphasis. "_   _I don’t want you to fry from the inside out.”_

_“…Like an egg?”_

_“More like that time Ma boiled the potatoes for too long.”_

_Stan shuddered, hugging the pillow closer to his body. His bro nodded in agreement, running his fingers through his hair. They stared at the wall of their dark bedroom._

 _"S_ _o don’t get caught in a thunderstorm,” Ford said with finality._

The heavens cracked open, interrupting his recollection, and a bright flash of lightning struck down in front of him. The electricity tingled against his skin, thrumming against his heartbeat. The boom was so loud; he could feel it wrestle deep inside his head.

The memory shattered, taking the reassuring voice with it, and was washed away in the rainwater.

When he opened his eyes, the world was blinking bright yellow spots. It took a few moments for his eyesight to return to some type of normal. At first, he thought it hadn’t. Ford had never mentioned hallucinations being a side effect.

Before him, sprawled on the ground, was a kid. Brown hair plastered to his face, backpack unstably perched on his back. He was knocked out. A few feet away a sodden fur hat lay on the ground. 

Blood roared in his ears. He rushed forward and crouched down next to the child.

The kid didn’t get struck by lightning, did he? His hands felt for a pulse. For a frantic moment, he couldn’t find it. Ah, there it was. A sigh escaped his mouth, the tension draining from his body.

He checked him over, taking careful note of his scraped palms, scuffed up tennis shoes, and the dark scorch mark staining the hat. Fading bruises dotted his kneecaps along with an angry, red scratch, and his clothing was torn in a few places. He scrutinized the kid's face, coming to realize that he looked strangely familiar. Stan couldn’t place him.

What to do? He couldn’t just leave the kid out here in the rain and lightning, especially since it looked like he had just ran through hell and back. If he took him to safety though, would that be considered kidnapping? He didn’t need that on his record…

Screw it.

He gathered him up in his arms, grabbed the hat, and jogged the rest of the way to the motel. Just as he reached the door to his room, the boy started to wake up, mumbling something incoherent.

“It’s alright, kiddo,” he said softly, shifting the kid onto his other arm as he searched for his motel key.

The wind had died down, as well as the rain. Thanks. It couldn’t have happened earlier. Or better yet, not at all.

He whipped out the key, slid it into the slot, and turned it. The door unlocked with a click.


	2. Itsy Bitsy Spider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The itsy bitsy spider  
> Climbed up the water spout.  
> Down came the rain  
> And washed the spider out.

((Warning: Vomit))

* * *

 Dipper groaned, feeling his head pound in time with his heartbeat. His whole body ached, from his toes to his face. Behind his eyelids, the world glowered dark red in color, when before it had been blindingly bright, flashing gold and electric blue. The change was disconcerting, although altogether not a surprise.

Gradually, his other senses returned to him. The room had a musty and wet stone scent, pleasing in their own foreign ways. Wrapped around him was a warm towel. It did a bit to alleviate his sore body. Outside, he heard the insistent howl of the wind, muted against solid walls and the low sing-song voice of a man.

“Doodly-doo, drying my clothes on the heater,” the voice hummed softly.

He tried opening his eyes, but it proved too much of an effort. His eyelids fluttered uselessly, straining against exhaustion. He succeeded for a moment, and managed to get the bright glare of a light right in his eye. _That_ was a bad idea. His headache worsened, causing him to groan louder and cover his eyes. His stomach gave a little nauseating roll.

The man stopped humming. Dipper heard him pad over, and the rustle of fabric as he crouched down next to his resting place. “Hey kiddo, you awake?” the gruff voice said.

At first, Dipper wasn’t sure why that voice was so familiar. The resonance of syllables, the words roughly slurring together, that coarse smoker’s voice. Then it hit him. It should have been obvious. After all, who else would have taken him inside? It was Grunkle Stan! He must have rescued him earlier, from something...? As soon as he tried to remember exactly what had happened, his headache pounded louder, scattering his thoughts. For the moment, he let it go.

Dipper gave a small nod.

“Phew,” Stan exhaled. “You almost gave me a heart attack back there, appearing out of the blue. How’re ya feeling?”

His mouth opened on its own accord, and a strange rasping sound came out. Clearing his throat did nothing. He tried speaking again, this time his voice cracked, ascending as high as the heavens, and then dropping into the pits of hell. 

He groaned, rubbing his throat. “Do you have any water?” he whispered.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll be right back.” Stan’s presence disappeared from his side. He heard the sound of running tap water, and the thumping of the man’s returning footsteps. “Can you sit up?”

Dipper sat up slowly, feeling his stomach flip. Stan’s hand steadied him as he began to sway.

“Easy there,” the man warned. He guided Dipper’s hands to the cup, took a moment to make sure he could actually hold it, and sat down on the other side of the bed.

Dipper’s fingers locked around the plastic cup, it’s surface crinkling under his tight hold. For a second, his hand shook from the unexpected weight, and he almost spilled the water all over himself. Luckily, his hand remembered how to hold things in time. He took a slow sip of the water, delicately swirling it in his mouth before swallowing. The water was cool and comforting. It had a slightly different taste than what he was used to, but he couldn’t exactly place what was changed. Maybe it was just his imagination.

After he finished, he placed the cup down beside him, the towel slipping off his shoulder. He absentmindedly touched his head, just noticing that his hat was gone.  “What happened?”

“Don’t really know. Found you on the street passed out. ‘S raining pretty hard earlier, and there was lots of lightning so I took you inside.”

“It was raining?” He could’ve sworn the day had been clear. Then another realization hit him. “Wait, just me? Where’s Mabel?”

The mattress dipped a little. “Mabel?”

Dipper’s stomach dropped at Stan’s tone of voice. Utterly indifferent, with the barest hint of curiosity to warm his deadened words. No, no! That wasn’t right! The old man always spoke Mabel’s name with a certain amount of affection. Now, though, his voice was flat, flat and wrong. It was like they were talking about someone only he knew. Something wasn’t right.

What if he wasn’t even talking to Stan? He had just assumed from the way the man sounded. If he could just open his eyes and confirm it…

His eyelids fluttered open. The artificial light stung his eyes for a moment, but he adjusted. Rubbing away the tears that had sprung into existence, he focused on the figure sitting in front of him. His mouth gaped open, and a choked sound came out of his throat, a mixture between Stan and who are you.

The man who might or might not be Stan turned towards him, noticing his confusion. His hair was a dark brown, and his face was less lined, although he still had that characteristic five o’clock shadow coloring his square jaw. Trying to give a smile, the man spoke, “Hey, it’s alright.” Glistening in the lamplight, a sweat drop rolled down the side of his face. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Dipper scooted backwards, pulling the towel tighter around himself. This didn’t make sense. None of it did. Even with the constant beat of a headache resounding in his skull, his memories were slowly returning. The one thing he quickly figured out was that his savior (though that still was questionable) didn’t fit in with everything else he remembered. How did he end up with him?

Earlier, he had been with Mabel, running from…pirates? No, that couldn’t be right. The pounding in his head increased, followed by the ghost of Mabel’s sharp cry. His heartbeat sped up. What happened? What happened to Mabel? She _had_ to be alright. He couldn’t bear the thought of having lost her, forever.

His memories were a giant jigsaw puzzle, and he had no idea what image the pieces were trying to form.

“You haven’t seen Mabel?” he said desperately, addressing the man. When seeing no lightbulb go off above his head, he rushed on, tripping over his words, “She’s my sister, my t-twin! She’s always wearing sweaters, and she has braces, and…and she has long, curly brown hair!”

The man looked more and more somber by the second. He shook his head, “Uh…sorry kiddo. Didn’t see much of anyone else around there.”

A frantic chant of _no_ marched around in his head, accompanied by his own voice telling him _to do something, anything!_

Suddenly, Dipper’s stomach lurched uncomfortably, bile rising up in his throat. He was frozen in a moment of shock, before he struggled to his feet, almost falling over from his wobbly noodle legs. As the world spun around him, his stomach heaved, and he instinctively clamped his hands over his mouth to stop the oncoming wave of vomit.

Dimly, he was aware of Stan asking him what was wrong. There wasn’t any time to answer. Making one last frantic attempt, he stumbled down a short hallway to the bathroom. He keeled over the toilet, the scent of feces and piss climbing up from the dirty bowl.

His fingers dug into the ceramic, a despairing whimper rising from the depths of his chest, and he threw up. The acid burned in his mouth, the horrid taste lingering in his breath. There wasn’t much, just a mixture of water and some pretzels he had eaten who knows when. He screwed his eyes shut against the sight. Another heave and a shaky groan, though this time his mouth remained blessedly empty. Not taking any chances, he continued to hang onto the toilet seat as if it was a life line.

The realization that Stan had crouched down next to him, soothingly rubbing his back, came after a few minutes. The touch was gentle, but it sent discomfort arching down Dipper’s back. The man’s voice was soft, murmuring jumbled reassurances that he couldn’t understand through the shivers and heaves that racked his body.

After what seemed like an hour, Stan gently helped him onto his feet. He flushed the toilet, wrinkling his nose at the puke. Then the man kneeled down in front of him, melancholy swirling in his eyes and produced a wet tissue. He wiped away the remaining traces of vomit from his mouth.

“There, that’s better.” A weak smile. “Why dontcha get cleaned up? Then we’ll talk about finding your sister and getting ya home.”

His mouth was heavy with the taste of acid and his entire body felt bruised and battered. What he would give to go back to sleep. “Okay.”

Stan looked him up and down, gaze lingering on a spot on his shirt. “Throw your clothes outside the bathroom and I’ll get them cleaned up at this laundromat a few blocks away.” He looked uncomfortable in the small space, so he stood.

“Thank you,” Dipper said softly, hugging himself.  

“Yeah, yeah,” Stan waved it off, “No problem. Just don’t forget to throw your clothes outside.”

Then he left, shutting the door behind him.

 


	3. To a Canary, a Cat is a Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone has a bad day. A really bad day.

It had been a dismal day when Mabel had first woken up. Bitterly cold, with murky skies and a crooning wind. The conditions hadn’t improved at all as she walked, although movement seemed to help her warm up.

She folded her arms across her chest, tucking her fingers under her armpits. They were freezing.

The pine trees rustled, sounding like soft laughter. For the umpteenth time that day, she turned in a circle, searching through the trees for any sign of life. All she could see were dense woods and thorny undergrowth, the shadows growing longer as the day faded into night. The wind picked up, tasting of snow and frost.

She turned to walk again, but abruptly stopped. A human shadow, in the corner of her eye. It waved at her. Too afraid to look back, she sped up. Laughter seemed to follow her footsteps, making her hands shake. She curled her fingers into fists.

What if something had followed her?

She _really_ hoped nothing did. The chances were slim, but she couldn’t stop the anxious buzz of paranoia in the back of her mind. It made her heart speed up, her ears ring. Was this what Dipper felt like?

A branch cracked. She whirled around, heart hammering against her ribs.

“Who…who’s there?”

In response, the trees rustled louder.

Scanning the darkening undergrowth, Mabel adjusted her backpack. “I’m not a-afraid of you,” she proclaimed all false bravado, “I’ve battled and defeated countless monsters, even a chaos demon! You’re nothing to me.” Hoping to look intimidating, she puffed out her chest and stuck her hands on her hips. Goosebumps rose along her arms as the seconds trickled by.

Nothing.

And more nothing.

She turned and began walking again, this time faster.

How could have something tracked her? After all, she travelled through the very fabric of space and time! Maybe it was just a friendly woodsman, willing to lead her home. Or some cute forest critter that had smelled the snacks she had in her bag. Or maybe...maybe...

Dipper would probably know. He was good at figuring things out. Where was he anyways? She wasn’t _overly_ concerned, but…

A flash of golden eyes caught her attention. She skidded to a stop, staring at the spot where she had seen them. They didn’t reappear. She gulped nervously.

So probably not some forest friend.

Frantic cawing came from the sky. She gazed at the treetops in bewilderment. The bird cries grew in number, ringing throughout the forest, and suddenly the air was alive with the sound of beating wings. With a loud yelp, she dove for cover underneath a small tree. She crouched down low, hugging her backpack against her chest.  

Through the prickling pine needles and gnarling wood, she saw feathers drift down. Some of them glistened an inky crimson color.

The world fell into eerie silence. Suffocating with tension, a noose delicately adjusted onto her neck. Not even the wind blew anymore. She held her breath, a whimper rising in her throat. 

A frantic, shrill squawk broke out from behind her, and then a loud thump. The whimper escaped, her heart pulsing loudly in her ears. Brilliant yellow feathers tumbled across the earth, their color starkly stained with ruby liquid.

She thought she might scream but nothing came out of her mouth. Fear of attracting the monster kept her quiet.

Something had definitely followed her. She could probably run from it, if it wasn’t too late. Maybe even fight it, if it was all bark and no bite.

Well, unless it was _that thing_. The thing that had stalked her and Dipper through countless timelines, that had made them split up. The thing that had always stayed just out of sight, breathing its rancid breath down their necks. The thing that had a way with manipulating emotions, with destroying and taking and taking _and taking--_

A crunch, to the left.

Terror crawled down her spine.

A crack, to the right.

Her heart was in her throat, constricting painfully.                                                                                                     

A crunch, in front.

Fingers, trembling and icy cold, clenched against her chest.

A shadow settled in front of her, a mere foot away.

Disassociating doom overwhelmed any coherent thought. Her breath came in short gasps. She clamped her mouth down, to stop her teeth from chattering.

“Mabel?”

“…Dipper?” she whispered, unable to believe her ears.

His face swam into view, smudged with dirt and a scrape on his cheek, but overall okay. She surged out from underneath the tree and gathered him in the tightest hug she could manage.

“You’re here!” she cried into his shirt, lifting him up in the air. He smelled like pine sap and snow. Tears leaked down her eyes, relief engulfing her.

“Mabel…I…can’t…breathe…” Dipper gasped.

“Sorry!” she laughed, setting him down. They stared at each other for a moment, before her eyes filled with tears and she was crying into her hands. She felt him gently place a hand on her shoulder, telling her that _it was okay_.

It was okay.

After a minute, she gathered herself, wiping away any traces of her breakdown. “I can’t believe...” she trailed off, mind ecstatically jumping from question to question, “Where have you been?”

A sheepish smile and a shrug. He glanced down at his knees, which were scraped. “I distracted them, you know, the time pirates, and then I used the teleportation device to get away from them. I’ve been wandering around for a bit.”

He coughed thickly, and rubbed his throat. “Could I drink some of your water? I lost my stuff somewhere back in the timeline.”

“Oh sure, let me just get my backpack from down there.” She crawled under the tree and retrieved her things, carefully brushing off the pine needles that had stuck to the fabric. When she got out, Dipper was standing there in the same position she had left him in. He was watching her.

She stood up, dusting off her knees. Rummaging around inside the bag, she pulled out the water bottle and held it out to him. His eyes snapped from her backpack to her hand with startling speed. He stared at her, before taking the bottle, gulping down the liquid as if it was saving his life. Maybe it was.  

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted bloody feathers littering the floor. “Oh, shoot, we gotta get moving. Come on, bro-bro. No time to stand around.”

He wiped his mouth and handed the bottle back to her, the remaining water sloshing in the container. He tilted his head curiously. “What do you mean?”

“Something followed me-- _us._ We can’t get caught by it,” she explained, stuffing the bottle back into her bag and zipping it close. She insistently tugged at his hand.

He remained unmoving, brow furrowing in confusion. “Something,” his voice cracked, “followed us?”

She nodded.

“N-no,” he stuttered, pulling away from her. His hands jerked up to his chest and he clutched his shirt. “We can’t just run from it, Mabel!” Dipper’s gaze bore into her, a dark whirlwind of emotions. She subconsciously took a step back. “It’s _that thing_ , right? T-that monster? We need to use the time machine, or else it’ll catch us!”

“Yeah,” she said, trying to placate him by patting his arm. “You’re right. But it’s broken, so unless you can fix it in less than a minute, we’re better off running.”

Dipper shook his head. “Mabel, give it to me. You haven’t seen what I’ve seen. You wouldn’t understand! Give it to me, right now!”

They were caught in a staring contest, neither backing down. Mabel wanted to give it to him, _she really did_ , but something was off. Something about the way he was acting, the way he looked, the way he spoke. This was too foreign. She wanted to pass it off as paranoia, or exhaustion, or anything but what it probably was. She wanted to believe that this was Dipper, her brother, her best-friend, her partner-in-crime. She wanted everything to be okay, just like he had said.

Her hands started to sweat.

“Please,” he implored, this time his voice carefully softer.

It was heartbreaking to hear his voice waver like that, to see his eyes glisten with unshed tears. All that fear and stress had accumulated onto his face, twisting it until she wanted to hug him and tell him they would figure it out. She almost did. But her instincts screamed at her to stop and think. It was too much; his voice, is actions. Everything was like it had been calculated moments before, an actor trying to remember his lines. And then there was the absence of anything else but him. Where was the monster? Why had all the birds fled?

Bright yellow feathers waved from the edge of her vision, sticky with blood. Her eyes darted towards Dipper’s vest, a red mark smeared into the fabric. Then to his nails. Dark with blood, drying into flakes.

Under her scrutiny, he gave her a smile. Teeth stained crimson, feathers peeking out from between. She blinked. It was gone.

She took a deep breath. “I’ll… I’ll give it to you, if you tell me the secret password.”

There wasn't a secret password. They hadn't made one, this time. Dipper would know. 

“We don’t have time for this!” he hissed in exasperation.

“Wrong,” she said, a shaky grin on her face. “Try again.”

Wrong, wrong, wrong, a little voice sung in her head. 

 “Mabel. Give me it,” he growled.

“No,” she said, dancing away from him.

He lunged forward, but it was too late, she was already too far from him. The boy fell to the forest floor, panting like a wild animal. His neck craned around to stare at her. It was a murderous glare, misplaced on Dipper’s face. “ _You are going to regret this.”_

She froze mid-action, legs glued to the floor. Unable to look away, she stared at him in horror.

He fell apart, skin disintegrating underneath her gaze. The flickering body expanded outwards, until it was the size of a tiger. Its face solidified into something feline, with too many eyes. She saw its maw gape open, the scent of its breath carrying over to her frozen body. Warm and sickeningly sweet, fragrant flowers and sharp iron. A breathy whistling sound resonated from its throat.

It coldly regarded her, its voice swelling into whispery laughter, into rustling tree leaves. “ _Run while you can.”_

Suddenly, it was like a switch flipped off in her head; in a space of half a second, Mabel went from being petrified to sprinting across the forest floor. From the fast movement, she stumbled forward and her knees buckled. Harsh stone scraped into her shins.

She was up again within an instant.

Her feet pounded loudly, throwing up dust and brown leaves. The forest flashed by her in dizzying waves. Hop over the roots, duck under that tree branch. The monster followed closely, its whispery laughter mocking her efforts. There was no way she could outrun it; they both knew that. This was just a game to it.

An easy one at that.  

Breaths came out faster and faster. Her lungs ached desperately for more than a hurried gulp of air. Branches scratched at her legs and face.

“Please, God,” she blubbered through her frantic breaths, “Please, please, please.”

Then she was airborne, sailing over an empty expanse. The ground came rushing up too fast, dark asphalt covered in pine needles. She pounded against the earth, stumbling and crying out from the shock. But she kept going. She wobbled over the road and onto the dirt. Her vision was dangerously wavering. There was a building; a house with a steep roof. Wooden and rickety looking. Almost familiar.  

Before she had a chance to even make it halfway, the world crashed down.

She woke up almost immediately, mouth filled with dirt and gasping for air. Her ears rung and her head throbbed. A terrible weight crushed her legs. They were going numb. The monster leaned in, its breath smelling of iron and meat, all pretense of sweetness gone. She shook like a leaf in the wind. It began to laugh, a whispery rumble that reverberated deep into her heart.

A high, desperate cry flew from her lips, echoing around the clearing. Mabel squirmed underneath of it, nails digging into the dirt. The ground beneath her face darkened into wet splattering circles. Salt danced on her tongue, mixed with strands of hair.

Its whispery voice swelled into a gleeful screech; jarring. Screaming its ownership. Reveling in its victory.

An amateur mistake.

She had a split second to act. Twisting around, she kicked upward. It was lighter than it had seemed. The beast’s weight disappeared, and an outraged, human-like scream tore from its throat. She sprung onto her feet, and made a mad dash towards the house. Bounding up the house’s porch steps, she slammed her body against the door. Her hands curled around the handle and she shoved it with all her weight. It didn’t budge.

“No, no, no,” she cried, pounding her fists against the door. “Please open! Is anyone there?”

The wind picked up, and it began to snow.

She sobbed against the splintering wood. Someone _had_ to be inside, anyone. Her fists hurt, splinters embedded into her icy flesh.

“ _What a disappointment,”_ it whispered with its too many voices.

She whirled around, back pressed against the door.

The monster had turned into a shimmering panther, its eyes brilliant gold and too intelligent. It sprung forward, legs blurring into a glistening cloud.

She cried out, covering her face.

Suddenly the world tilted. The door had disappeared underneath her back. Her ears rung and she tried in vain to regain her footing. She slammed onto the floor and was left gasping for breath. Objects in her backpack dug uncomfortably into her spine. Tears blurred her vision as she sat up.

Tan fabric flapped in front of her face. A whizz rang through the air, a pained scream following the sound. It sounded like Dipper’s scream. But it couldn’t have been. He wasn’t here, it was just the monster.

The door slammed shut, air rushing by her face. Faintly, Mabel heard ragged breathing of the other person in the room. She could barely see them through her trembling vision. After a second of stillness, she couldn’t bear to look at them anymore.

A piercing ache permeated her senses, originating from her battered legs. Bright blood, _oh god it was everywhere,_ streamed down her shins, staining her socks into a brilliant crimson. It was too bright, almost orange.

She hid her face in the crook of her elbow, trembling.

“Why was that thing chasing you?” the man said, voice gruff from disuse.

She couldn’t reply. Her throat constricted painfully.

“Can you look at me?” he asked.

She shook her head no.

The floor creaked. Then again, and again, from different parts of the room.

A force yanked her upwards, and she cried out, struggling against the grip. A face, that was almost familiar, greeted her. Bloodshot eyes, wide with paranoia, hidden behind dirty glasses, and wild, brown hair. Dark half-moons under his eyes, skin wan and almost papery looking. His breath smelled like gin and shattered dreams.

The man’s grasp was uncomfortably strong on her sweater neck. She kicked at him, missing by a few feet. “Let me go!” she cried, “Let go! You’re hurting me!”

His gaze hardened. “Just keep still.”

Strong light filtered into her eyes and she gasped. It only lasted for a second. He clicked the light off and set her onto the ground. She backed away from him. They stared at each other in equal trepidation.

She looked away first. Sobs overtook her small form, and she broke down, hugging herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos! I appreciate each and every one of 'em.
> 
> If you were mildly surprised that Mabel was included...well, don't even worry about it, buddy. I'm cooking up some big plans. They're looking mighty delicious. *cocks finger guns and winks*


	4. Nemo Malus Felix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the bad day continues.

Surrounded by suffocating layers of dust, a girl was crying.

She was disappearing into her sweater, her arms curling around her backpack. Her high and keening voice pierced through the walls of his house, adding another haunting memory to its wood. Her hands went up to cover her face, to stifle the sound escaping from her mouth.

The man’s mind spun out of control. His already unstable grasp on the situation was beginning to fall away. A record looping on the same bit of its track, repeating the same thing over and over. Then, a pause, a stutter, skipping forward. He tried to find something else to concentrate on, something else to hear, something else to see.

Nothing. The sun was gone, the clouds blanketing the sky a dark black. Shadows wreathed around the room, choking his eyesight. His ears rung: a call.

(Then the whisper of ocean waves,

A familiar face swam before his own,

Hair longer, face a little fuller,

Eyes staring straight back at his,

Lips moved, saying…?)

Suddenly, he was struck with incoherence, an inconsistency to his thoughts. The image from seconds ago flashed in his mind for a brilliant second, before falling away; a dazzling star disappearing into the depths of a monstrous universe. His mind surged against the unexplained loss, grasping at the fading streak of light, but accomplished nothing more than pushing it farther away.

A metallic taste curdled in his mouth, and he realized he had bitten his cheek.

He raked his hands through his hair, nearly tearing roots out. Oily residue coated his fingers, dandruff littering his hands like fairy dust.

What was he doing?

He dragged his nails across his chin and abruptly pulled away; the stubble scraped his fingertips. The pain lingered, tingling uncomfortably.

The pain cleared his head enough for him to concentrate on something for more than a single moment. The girl. She needed help to get home. She couldn’t stay here. Yes, that was it. He would get her home.

But first, he needed to turn on the lights. It was near impossible to see anymore.

With that thought in mind, he pulled the cord of a lamp affixed to the wall. Light flooded the hallway, banishing the shadows to the next room.

He walked towards her and kneeled down in front of her. She seemed oblivious to his actions, engrossed in her misery.

For a moment, he was at a loss of what to do. Then it came rushing back. Words, tumbling over one another, spilled from his mouth. “You have to get up. You can’t stay here. Please get up.”

She peeked up at him through her tangled mass of hair, with eyes that were rimmed with redness. Cracks seemed to mesh through her eyes. She reminded him of a fragile glass bauble, one wrong move and she would end up shattering into thousands of glittering pieces. For a moment, he wondered if it would be easier to let that happen. She wasn’t _his_ problem. He didn’t even _know_ her. He didn’t need more problems to solve, more people to put in danger.

Why did he have to open that door?

That metallic taste. He had bitten the same spot on his cheek again.

The girl’s gaze tore through him, causing him to turn away. There was an irrational fear that somehow, she had seen his thoughts. Seen him for what he really was: a selfish monster. He would rather sacrifice a child to a monster than dirty his own hands trying to save her. Rather wishing that he had hidden under his desk, clutching a crossbow to his chest as her screams rung into the house.

“Are you okay?”

The question slapped him in the face, bringing him back to reality. The girl had spoken, her voice high and creaking. She wiped away her tears with a dirty sleeve, sniffing conspicuously. Tucking her hair behind her ears, she revealed delicately furrowed eyebrows.

“What?” he stammered.

“I mean…” She fidgeted with her hair but remained staring at him. She was scrutinizing him, taking him apart and dissecting every little part. What she found made her lips twist in a way that made him uneasy. He wondered at what it meant. “Your face was…contorting.”

The girl’s hand gestured to her own face, which was twisted into an ugly grimace, as if he hadn’t understood what she meant. She then relaxed, her hands settling down onto her backpack. She clutched the material tightly, almost nervously, her nails, carefully painted to resemble the colors of a rainbow, digging into the cloth. It was bright pink, intercepted by warm browns. A golden star rested on the lower pocket, glimmering in the artificial light.

He scratched his chin again. The stubble grated uncomfortably, just enough to anchor him back down into reality. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

(Maybe repeating it enough times would make it true)

Silence lapsed. The wind whispered against the windows, and the rain pattered against the roof. Their breaths echoed in the room, his slightly ragged and hers carefully controlled.

Distantly, he recalled a half-assed lesson his brother tried to give him once when they were selling items in the pawn shop. His brother had said that the main problem with him was that he never looked confident. His smile wasn’t wide enough, his words were mumbled, and he couldn’t even look them in the eye.  In order to sell something, he had to make the target trust him. How could he do that, if he acted like an unconfident, nervous mess?

Sometimes, _you have to pretend. Just fake it until you make it._

Although it hadn’t worked then, or even later in his life, he tried it now with the girl. He tried selling that he was a perfectly sane man, with no problems other than hers to solve. So he smiled, wide enough to split his face in half, and held out his hand for a handshake. “I’m Stanford Pines.”

She blinked, before a small smile blossomed across her face. Bright, neon bands and shiny metal crisscrossed her teeth. Taking a moment to set her backpack against the wall, she then daintily shook his hand. “I’m Mabel.”

The authenticity behind the gesture surprised him. It had seemed unlikely that his half-assed gesture at being friendly would work, but it had. Somehow, she had bought into it.

(Or maybe she was pretending)

He helped her stand up. She didn’t let go of his hand.

“Thank you for saving me earlier,” she said, looking up at him.

Something tightened in his chest. He let go of her hand. “Yes well, I’ve had nasty run-ins with terrifying beasts before.”

The gravity of their situation hit him full force. He had forgotten, with her bright smile and friendly demeanor. It had been a pleasant interlude, but it could not last. She needed to get home.  

Her brows furrowed at him. His face must be contorting. He carefully smoothed his features over, imagining a sculptor’s hands wiping away the creases inscribed into his skin.

“Mabel,” he said gravely, falling onto one knee so he would be at eye level with her, “You cannot stay here. Where is your family?”

The sparkles in her eyes dimmed. She looked away and wrapped her arms around herself, staring at her abandoned backpack. “I lost them in the woods. Then that thing started to chase me.”

“Where do you live?”

She squirmed, not meeting his eyes. “It’s really, _really_ complicated.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She huffed. “Could I just stay with you? For the night, at least. It’s too dark now.” Mabel turned back towards him, her eyes glimmering in the light, pooled with something akin to tears.  “Pleeease Ford?”

“Alright,” he stammered out, running his hand through his hair, before recovering, “But first thing in the morning, you must go home. You cannot stay here.”

The girl smiled.

Suddenly, she was lunging towards him, and he tried backpedaling, but there was a wall at his back. He was trapped and _fuckfuck, why did he let his guard down? Bill_ had possessed her, or it was the shapeshifter, or some sick, demented monster—

His vision blurred and the wall had bent around him, and the girl was crushing his chest in her grip. His heart thundered, air whisking between his teeth as he desperately tried to breathe _._

“Thank you, Ford!” she said.

Just as quickly as she had struck, she let go, leaving him shell-shocked.

What just happened?

He looked towards her. She was picking up her backpack, nestling it onto her shoulders. She didn’t notice him staring.

Ford ran his hands through his hair, taking deep breaths. It didn’t seem like she had tried to attack him. It had been some kind of physical thank you. He was sure he had known what it was called, at one point. A hug. Yes, that was it. She had hugged him.

His heart still beat uncomfortably fast, ice trailing down his spine.

* * *

 

Mabel stared up at the dark ceiling. Eyes tracing along the cracks between the wood, she tried to make out the mold spots she had named during the summer. They weren’t there. Sighing, she pulled the cover up, the soft fabric tickling her chin.

After she had cleaned herself up (with Ford’s help), Ford had set her up the attic, saying something about how heat rises. There already had been a mattress laid out, an ugly green afghan carefully arranged across it and a pillow propped up against the wall. He had looked pained to see it. His face had twisted, his eyebrows scrunching together in something like guilt. She had seen his mouth open in an “o” shape before he snapped his jaws shut, loud enough that she could hear his teeth click.

He hadn’t noticed her staring, and he moved in a trance like state after that. Mabel hoped he’d be okay. Well, she knew he would be in the future. Still, she couldn’t help but worry. She wanted to help him, but she wasn’t sure how much her actions would mess with the future.  Her presence here might’ve already affected the timeline beyond repair.

Before they’d set out on their adventure, Blendin had warned them that if they did anything too crazy to the timeline, he might not be able to fix it. They could even be erased from existence. But, if she just helped Ford a little, get him to eat and maybe sleep more, that couldn’t change too much, right? As long as she was gone before Grunkle Stan came, everything would be fine.

What if she had messed up the timeline already? Just being here might've changed things beyond repair.

Oh no. She hated time travel hi-jinks.

The only thing she could really do was get the heck out of here as fast as possible. She’d ask Ford to fix the time machine, and then go home. If she was lucky, he’d probably just assume she was a weird hallucination and forget about her over the 30 years he’s trapped beyond the portal.

On the other hand, the monster was still outside. It was no telling what lengths it would do to get its treasure back. Too bad it chased her all this way for nothing. Dipper had the treasure. She hoped he was okay. 

Where was he? Or better yet, when?

She turned over, squeezing her eyes shut. Worrying always made her tired, not that she wasn’t already. It would be easier to just fall asleep. Exhaustion spread along her limbs, and she let herself drift away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the extremely late update. Ford's POV was a pain in the booty to write out (I have so many scrapped drafts), not to mention end of term schoolwork and all that jazz. But, I'm on break now, so updates will probably be weekly from now on (hahaha... that's a lie)...
> 
> Thank you for the kudos and comments!! They are all really lovely to receive. :D


	5. Here we go...!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which introductions are made, and the adventure starts.

Stan woke up early.

He would’ve rather slept until the world ended, but his body had needs, and he’d be damned if he sat in a damp spot of his own piss. So, he got up. Stretching, he yawned lazily. From the window, he could see pale light peeking in through the blinds. It was early.

The world was silent as he did his business.

When he got out of the bathroom, he paused, surveying the room. Everything was in its place, just like the night before. It looked like the kid hadn’t even moved. He was burrowed underneath the covers, his soft breaths filling the room.

Stan frowned, recalling last night. The kid had been a blubbering mess, talking about gargoyles and maple trees. He had seemed slightly delirious from lack of sleep, as far as Stan could tell, and with a hint of a feverish determination to fuel it. If things got worse, he would have to drop him off at the hospital.

That’d probably be for the best. After all, what was he supposed to do with some random kid? By himself, he had a hard-enough time, but throwing a kid into the mix would make everything worse.

Finally, after thinking a bit, he decided they needed to leave. His low stash of cash made that obvious enough. Renting a motel room wasn’t as cheap as living out of your car. All he had to do was pack his stuff and check out. If the kid’s parents were in town, great. If not, they couldn’t be far. And if they were, well, Stan would just hand him off to the police, or closest relative, or whatever. His hands would be washed clean of the whole situation.

Flicking on a lamp, he started on his plan: clear the room. It was a bit of a pain (he really shouldn’t have kept all those stanvaccs), but he made good time. He made trips in and out of the motel room, trying to be as quiet as possible, but on the last trip, he might’ve closed the door too hard or something, because just as he was throwing the last pile of clothes into his trunk, the door creaked open on its own.

With his hands elbow deep in the junk, trying to make sense of what to keep, he spotted the kid.

The kid was unsure, his hands curled into fists. Something flitted across his face, relief, then embarrassment.  They made eye contact, and the kid gave an awkward smile. “Uh… hi.”

Stan turned then, giving him a full look. The kid wasn’t even dressed yet, still in his shorts and t-shirt. He crossed his arms, goosebumps rising along his bare skin.

“Oh, hey there kiddo. What’re you doing out here?” He said, smoothly shutting the trunk with a click.

“I…uh… just wanted to see what you were doing.”

Stan gave a small, cautious smile, and turned to fully face him. “Yeah? I’m just packing my things up. We wanna get ready to leave soon.”

“Where are we going?”

He shrugged. “Wherever your parents are.”

The kid’s eyes widened, and he was about to say something, but Stan cut him off. “How about we talk about this inside? It’s cold.”

Stan lead the way back to the room, opening the door. They stepped inside and instantly felt a layer of heat pass over them. The room was clean, clean for the first time since Stan had moved in. The only things left were the kid’s stuff.

He shut the door, flicking on the lights. “By the way, how are you feeling?”

The kid frowned. “I’m okay. A bit sore and stuff. Nothing a little more sleep won’t fix.”

“Great,” Stan said, rubbing his hands together. “Now, you go get dressed and we’ll be out of this dump in ten minutes. We can grab some grub from this burrito place nearby.”

“Wait, what’s your name?”

“My name?” he repeated, slightly surprised. Rubbing his chin, he said, “Stuart Smith.”  

“Really? Stuart Smith? You parents must’ve loved alliteration,” the kid said, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh yeah? What’s your name then?”

It was his turn to fidget. He scratched his head. “Uh, Di—ason. My name’s Dason.”

Stan couldn’t help but chuckle. Dason? “That sounds more made up then my name.”

“Ha! You admit it then!” ‘Dason’ exclaimed, jumping up and pointing at his face. “You _are_ using a fake name.”

Smarty-pants, Stan thought. “Alright, you little gremlin. How about this? You tell me your real name and I’ll tell you mine.”

“Fine. Your first.”

Rolling his eyes, Stan said, “Call me Stan. Stan the man.”

“Then you can call me Mason the…Mason the sensation!” he said with a grin.

Ah, man. This kid was adorable. “Alright, alright. Go get dressed.” Stan shooed him towards his stuff. “The burritos are calling my name.”

Mason walked over to the bed, and pulled on his shoes. Then he slipped on his hat, tugging at his vest to make sure it was in place.

“Hey, you got something to wear on top of that?” Stan asked. He didn’t want to sound like a mother hen, but it was getting to be pretty cold outside. Taking care of some sick twerp is the last thing he wanted.

The kid started to rummage in his backpack, before pulling out a fluff of maroon material. Something fell out, glittering and golden, but he didn’t notice it. He held up the sweater. There was a ball of yarn embroidered on the front of it.

“Kid, you dropped something.”

Mason looked down, instantly spotting it. Picking it up, he stared at it for a few seconds, before his face turned ashen. His eyes widened and he dropped it. He backed away from it, like it was a snake or something, clutching the sweater close to his chest.

“What’s that? A watch?” Stan walked over and stooped down to pick it up.

“No! Don’t touch it,” he cried out.

Stan hesitated for a full second, but really, it was just a watch. Brushing his fingers against it, he felt heavy, cold glass, smooth against his fingertips. Nothing happened, so he picked it up, letting it rest on his fingers. Something beat inside its clockwork, steady, like a heartbeat.

 He had never seen anything like it. It was fancy as hell. Not a Rolex, but some other type, made for its uniqueness rather than every-day functionality. Protected by a glass covering, there were a bunch of little glass orbs, all slowly circling around a bigger glass orb, with a backdrop of shimmering stars to make it pretty. Planets maybe? Stan didn’t remember jack about astronomy, but there were eight little orbs and the middle one was the largest and painted yellow, so probably planets.

“What’s so scary about it?” Stan asked, turning it over and looking at its shimmery, golden surface. Harmless, if gaudy. It looked like something you’d find in a high-end jewelry store, way too expensive for a kid to have. Its heaviness, at the very least, hinted to that.

“Put it down,” the kid said, his voice cracking. “You shouldn’t touch it.”

“Why not?” Stan challenged. There was a niggling curiosity in the back of his mind that he just couldn’t shake off. Something was wrong with the watch. Then, he looked at Mason, who was still clutching his sweater to his chest. There was fear shining in his eyes, his hands clenched into fists. Suspicions confirmed. But, suddenly, his hands loosened and his face relaxed.

“It’s uh…it’s really fragile! I don’t want you to break it. It’s my grandma Gertrude’s and she’d kill me if she found out I broke a family heirloom,” he explained. The fear still shone in his eyes, except now he sounded more confident of himself.

Stan had heard worse lies. But he let it go because, maybe, just maybe, he was afraid to dig deeper. Getting involved wasn’t what he wanted. He just needed to feed the kid and drop him off. Done deal. “Alright. Yeesh, you should’ve said that in the first place, kiddo.”

He set the watch down onto the desk, letting it clunk down heavily. “Let’s go eat.”

 

* * *

  

Twenty minutes later and eight dollars short, they sat in Stan’s car, half a burrito in both of their hands. Delicious, warm, gooey, it hit the spot. The salsa gave it that spicy tang it needed, and it filled him right up.

Grabbing his cup of coffee, which had been tilting haphazardly on the dashboard, he took a good long sip. Caffeine was one of the only things that were keeping him running. In a few more sips, he finished it. Crumpling up the cup, he stuffed it into the bag that the burritos came in.

“You finished?”

Mason stuffed the rest of the burrito into his face and chewed. “Yep,” he said through a full mouth.

Tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, Stan took a deep breath. For some reason, he was a little nervous, which was stupid. What was there to be nervous about? “Let’s talk about getting you home.”

Stan heard him swallow.

“Where would that be?”

The kid shrugged, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “My parents live in California, but I’ve been staying with my uncles in Oregon.”

Yeesh, what type of home life did this kid have?  “Oregon? How’d manage to get to New Mexico? That’s at least a thousand miles.”

He shrugged.

The kid was, a hundred percent, a runaway. Stan wondered who (or what) the boy had been running from. There were hundreds of different scenarios; an entire encyclopedia’s worth. He could only guess at it. And to be perfectly honest, he was afraid to ask.

“I need to find my sister first. I can’t go back without her.” Something must’ve clicked in his brain because he smacked his forehead. “Aw man, who knows what type of trouble she’s gotten into.” Mason shuddered. “Knowing her…”

“So, where’s she?” Stan asked, turning towards the kid. He wasn’t looking at him, choosing instead to stare at something crawling up the glove compartment. It was a spider. The kid reached out and squashed it with his thumb.

“Kid,” Stan said sharply.

“Sorry, I spaced out a little there,” he said with a nervous laugh. “My sister, right? She’s probably off feeding the wildlife. I don’t really know where she could be. Unless…”

“Unless…” Mason said again, his eyebrows furrowing.

Stan studied him for a moment, just noticing the dark circles underneath the kid’s eyes.

“Yeah. We should probably go to Oregon,” Mason said finally.

“Oregon,” Stan sighed. He kind of hoped that it would’ve been anywhere else. At least he wasn’t banned from there. “That’s far away from New Mexico. At least a thousand miles.”

How much money did he have left? Eighty or ninety? He was afraid to look. He hadn’t looked for any opportunities since he struck it big in Mexico. No matter how much he had, it wasn’t enough to make it to Oregon, without a few stops.

(And there’s another reason he was afraid.  He dimly remembered a letter, from his mother. It had said something about Oregon, a phone number, an address, an old, old friend who wasn’t his friend anymore.)

“I could take you to the police,” he said. Then he internally winced. If he was in Mason’s position, would he want to go to the police? The answer was no. And besides, Stan was in no position to shop up at the police station with a lost kid. With his luck, he’d be charged with kidnapping before he could say shazam.

“Yeah, but—“

The kid was cut off by another car driving onto the lot. They both froze. When Stan got a good look at the car, his stomach dropped. Black paint and tinted windows. He vaguely remembered seeing the car yesterday, maybe near the laundromat. It parked, and after a moment, a man stepped out, followed by two others. His hair was slicked back, making him look greasy. There was a glimmer of gold next to his eyes, and that’s all Stan needed to see to know.

He waited for them to walk inside the burrito restaurant before he peeled out of the parking lot. Halfway onto the highway, he realized that he was heading north: toward Oregon.

“Whelp, I guess I’m taking you to Oregon,” he said with a shrug. Probably for the best. After that stunt he’d pulled in Mexico with the drug cartel, he should have left even earlier.

The kid pumped his fist in the air. “Yes! Thank you!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stan grumbled, “Just don’t make me regret it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha whoops. It turns out I had this chapter for a while (a year) and I just forgot that it was decent. Anyways, I hoped you enjoyed it. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has commented! I was gonna reply but I ran out of things to say and it feels awkward now to reply after a year. Just know, I appreciate you guys! :')


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